


last room on the right

by vomara



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: El Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie, Flash Fic, Gen, Horror, Just minor spoilers, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21627373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vomara/pseuds/vomara
Summary: Don't drive alone.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	last room on the right

**Author's Note:**

> quick little thing i wrote tonight. unbeta'd.

He’s been holding a dead man’s grip on his steering wheel for hours now, fingers frozen stiff around polyester. The road signs have all but completely disappeared, the mile markers missing from the roadside.

_ Shit _ , he must’ve passed the road to Anchorage ages ago.  _ Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. _

He thought he was going the right way. Maybe. Or maybe he should’ve just invested in a smartphone with GPS tracking or whatnot because he’s in the fucking middle of nowhere, no civilization around, and he has no idea which way to go. Why the fuck was he so paranoid about technology in the first place? If only he wasn’t, maybe then he wouldn’t be lost.

And god knows he’s not willing to call the cops,  _ nuh uh _ , never. So it’s just him and his dwindling gas tank and the cold tundra of Alaska. That’s it. There’s nothing else.

It’s almost calming in a sense. The fear is still burning cold within him, but now that he can’t find the road back to Haines or Anchorage anymore, it’s just like he’s taking a drive. A peaceful drive off into the empty Alaskan wilderness.

His gas tank is nearing zero.

His hands clench tighter around the steering wheel.

Just as he’s about to cave and call 911, he sees it in the distance. A small oasis nestled in the middle of nowhere, a gas station lit brightly against the dim sunset. Its lights flicker disjointedly, but -- there’s people there, he can see them with their shabby cars, going in and out of the convenience store. And behind it, there’s a small hotel, a place to stop for the night.

Jesse’s muscles relax. God, he could use some rest. And someone at the reception desk could probably write him decent directions back to civilization. He just needed to get to Anchorage, or Haines, or wherever the fuck because honestly, he could settle for anywhere with more people.

The hotel’s a lot bigger than it looks. The foyer has a high ceiling, a cheap chandelier dangling down from the top. The place is worn like the Crystal Palace, but a different kind of worn, gentler, old from use, not smoke and disrepair.

“Here’s your key, Mr. Driscoll,” the tired receptionist says, handing him a pair of keys with a dangling keychain.

_ Welcome to Alaska!  _ the keychain proclaims. Jesse almost wants to tell it that he’s been here for quite a while.

The lady gestures to the second floor. “Room 170, all the way down. Last room on the right.”

“Thanks,” Jesse replies.

The receptionist has already turned back to her computer monitor.

As he walks up the stairs, a gaggle of children wearing swim gear run past him to the pool, herded by a stern-looking older lady. It’s kinda weird, in all honesty. The kids look like they’re vacationing but the only thing around is endless tundra. His mother would’ve had a bitch fit if the Pinkman family ever decided to vacation in this cold. But he’s not really a part of that family anymore, so maybe it’s not something he should be thinking about anyway.

The corridor on the second floor is surprisingly busy, the hallway full of couples and small families strolling along, all dressed uncharacteristically lightly for Alaskan weather. To Jesse’s surprise, there were  _ exactly _ 170 rooms in the hotel, and he counts them off as he passes them, evens on one side and odds on the other. The last two numbers next to his -- 168 and 169 -- are painted a different shade of brown. His is painted a bright red, and  _ damn _ , the receptionist was right. It really was the last room in the entire hotel.

Right next door, he hears the front door slam and shut. He doesn’t bother to look, but he catches a glimpse of dark hair, a whiff of cigarette smoke.

Guess that must be one of the rooms with smoking allowed, huh.

A child giggles down the corridor, catching his attention. It’s just a little girl, clutching at her mom’s hand, her other arm wrapped around a pink teddy bear. She meets his eyes, and for a second, Jesse is lost for words. Her eyes look old beyond her years, wide and dark and pained. There’s a hint of something vicious there, something dark.

Jesse blinks, and looks again. The darkness is gone, instead, the child is merely beaming at him. She lets go of her mom’s hand to wave at him. Slowly, he waves back.

He shakes his head. It must’ve just been another PTSD hallucination. He’s been working through them, but it’s a strenuous process.

Unsettled, Jesse stuffs the keys into the lock, staring once again at his bright red room number. The numbers stare back at him,  _ one, seven, zero _ , distorting oddly in his vision. His eyes feel watery, the numbers blurring together. Jesse… he needs to rest. One night of sleep will fix him up right. Yes, that’s all he needs.  _ Sleep. _

He unlocks the door and steps inside.


End file.
